Hanif Kureishi - The Buddha of Suburbia

My name is Karim Amir, and I am an Englishman born and bred, almost. I am often considered to be a funny kind of Englishman, a new breed as it were, having emerged from two old histories. But I dont care Englishman I am (though not proud of it), from the South London suburbs and going somewhere. Perhaps it is the odd mixture of continents and blood, of here and there, of belonging and not, that makes me restless and easily bored. Or perhaps it was being brought up in the suburbs that did it. Anyway, why search the inner room when its enough to say that I was looking for trouble, any kind of movement, action and sexual interest I could find, because things were so gloomy, so slow and heavy, in our family, I dont know why. Quite frankly, it was all getting me down and I was ready for anything.

Then one day everything changed. In the morning things were one way and by bedtime another. I was seventeen.

On this day my father hurried home from work not in a gloomy mood. His mood was high, for him. I could smell the train on him as he put his briefcase away behind the front door and took off his raincoat, chucking it over the bottom of the banisters. He grabbed my fleeing little brother, Allie, and kissed him; he kissed my mother and me with enthusiasm, as if wed recently been rescued from an earthquake. More normally, he handed Mum his supper: a packet of kebabs and chapatis so greasy their paper wrapper had disintegrated. Next, instead of flopping into a chair to watch the television news and wait for Mum to put the warmed-up food on the table, he went into their bedroom, which was downstairs next to the living room. He quickly stripped to his vest and underpants.

Fetch the pink towel, he said to me.

I did so. Dad spread it on the bedroom floor and fell on to his knees. I wondered if hed suddenly taken up religion. But no, he placed his arms beside his head and kicked himself into the air.

I must practise, he said in a stifled voice.

Practise for what? I said reasonably, watching him with interest and suspicion.

Theyve called me for the damn yoga Olympics, he said. He easily became sarcastic, Dad.

He was standing on his head now, balanced perfectly. His stomach sagged down. His balls and prick fell foward in his pants. The considerable muscles in his arms swelled up and he breathed energetically. Like many Indians he was small, but Dad was also elegant and handsome, with delicate hands and manners; beside him most Englishmen looked like clumsy giraffes. He was broad and strong too: when young hed been a boxer and fanatical chest-expander. He was as proud of his chest as our next-door neighbours were of their kitchen range. At the suns first smile he would pull off his shirt and stride out into the garden with a deckchair and a copy of the New Statesman. He told me that in India he shaved his chest regularly so its hair would sprout more luxuriantly in years to come. I reckoned that his chest was the one area in which hed been forward-thinking.

Soon, my mother, who was in the kitchen as usual, came into the room and saw Dad practising for the yoga Olympics. He hadnt done this for months, so she knew something was up. She wore an apron with flowers on it and wiped her hands repeatedly on a tea towel, a souvenir from Woburn Abbey. Mum was a plump and unphysical woman with a pale round face and kind brown eyes. I imagined that she considered her body to be an inconvenient object surrounding her, as if she were stranded on an unexplored desert island. Mostly she was a timid and compliant person, but when exasperated she could get nervily aggressive, like now.

Allie, go to bed, she said sharply to my brother, as he poked his head around the door. He was wearing a net to stop his hair going crazy when he slept. She said to Dad, Oh God, Haroon, all the front of yous sticking out like that and everyone can see! She turned to me. You encourage him to be like this. At least pull the curtains!

Its not necessary, Mum. There isnt another house that can see us for a hundred yards unless theyre watching through binoculars.

Thats exactly what they are doing, she said.

I pulled the curtains on the back garden. The room immediately seemed to contract. Tension rose. I couldnt wait to get out of the house now. I always wanted to be somewhere else, I dont know why.

When Dad spoke his voice came out squashed and thin.

Karim, read to me in a very clear voice from the yoga book.

I ran and fetched Dads preferred yoga book Yoga for Women, with pictures of healthy women in black leotards from among his other books on Buddhism, Sufism, Confucianism and Zen which he had bought at the Oriental bookshop in Cecil Court, off Charing Cross Road. I squatted beside him with the book. He breathed in, held the breath, breathed out and once more held the breath. I wasnt a bad reader, and I imagined myself to be on the stage of the Old Vic as I declaimed grandly, Salamba Sirsasana revives and maintains a spirit of youthfulness, an asset beyond price. It is wonderful to know that you are ready to face up to life and extract from it all the real joy it has to offer.

He grunted his approval at each sentence and opened his eyes, seeking out my mother, who had closed hers.

I read on. This position also prevents loss of hair and reduces any tendency to greyness.

That was the coup: greyness would be avoided. Satisfied, Dad stood up and put his clothes on.

I feel better. I can feel myself coming old, you see. He softened. By the way, Margaret, coming to Mrs Kays tonight? She shook her head. Come on, sweetie. Lets go out together and enjoy ourselves, eh?

But it isnt me that Eva wants to see, Mum said. She ignores me. Cant you see that? She treats me like dogs muck, Haroon. Im not Indian enough for her. Im only English.

I know youre only English, but you could wear a sari. He laughed. He loved to tease, but Mum wasnt a satisfactory teasing victim, not realizing you were supposed to laugh when mocked.

Special occasion, too, said Dad, tonight.

This was obviously what hed been leading up to. He waited for us to ask him about it.

What is it, Dad?

You know, theyve so kindly asked me to speak on one or two aspects of Oriental philosophy.

Dad spoke quickly and then tried to hide his pride in this honour, this proof of his importance, by busily tucking his vest in. This was my opportunity.

Ill come with you to Evas if you want me to. I was going to go to the chess club, but Ill force myself to miss it if you like.

I said this as innocently as a vicar, not wanting to stymie things by seeming too eager. Id discovered in life that if youre too eager others tend to get less eager. And if youre less eager it tends to make others more eager. So the more eager I was the less eager I seemed.

Dad pulled up his vest and slapped his bare stomach rapidly with both hands. The noise was loud and unattractive and it filled our small house like pistol shots.

OK, Dad said to me, you get changed, Karim. He turned to Mum. He wanted her to be with him, to witness him being respected by others. If only youd come, Margaret.

I charged upstairs to get changed. From my room, the walls decorated ceiling to floor with newspapers, I could hear them arguing downstairs. Would he persuade her to come? I hoped not. My father was more frivolous when my mother wasnt around. I put on one of my favourite records, Dylans Positively Fourth Street, to get me in the mood for the evening.

It took me several months to get ready: I changed my entire outfit three times. At seven oclock I came downstairs in what I knew were the right clothes for Evas evening. I wore turquoise flared trousers, a blue and white flower-patterned see-through shirt, blue suede boots with Cuban heels, and a scarlet Indian waistcoat with gold stitching around the edges. Id pulled on a headband to control my shoulder-length frizzy hair. Id washed my face in Old Spice.